


All Those Things You Never Said

by Bringbackthebees



Category: CruelPrince, Holly Black - Fandom, faeries - Fandom
Genre: Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Mixed feelings, Romantic Tension, Tension, They love each other, They'll figure it out, unresolved daddy issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-13
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:55:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14638443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bringbackthebees/pseuds/Bringbackthebees
Summary: Though Jude and Cardan have reached somewhat of an alliance, Jude’s father, Madoc, has suddenly dropped dead. Jude struggles with her own feelings toward her deceased father. And even worse, Cardan. These are a few, short excerpts of what Jude endures following Madoc’s death.





	1. Symptoms of Withdraw

My hair is fixed messily with pins and baubles, adorned with wild geraniums and scented of rotten faerie fruit. I pluck the pins that pinch my scalp and drop them to the floor; those sitting in the furthest row cast a glance in my direction, clearly displeased. They turn away, though. Once they catch sight of me.

The service is short. I stand in the back with my palm clamped over my mouth, so as to silence the protests that scarcely escape me. It is not an open casket; I don’t think they do that here. The family is, however, permitted to view the body before they burn him to bits of faerie decay. I much prefer human customs in the event of death. I remember attending my grandmother’s funeral when I was but a child- remember the stiffness of her skin and artificial curve of her lip. They had made it appear as though she were smiling, as if whatever was waiting for her beyond death was a comfort.

I can see Taryn from here, sitting alongside Locke- their hands tightly woven. I fear that She may be in even worse pain than I, and I am in a great deal of pain. 

 

 

I can’t even seem to make it past the threshold. My legs give way- I fall to my knees, breaking open the flesh beneath my gown against the cobblestone tile. My head is not filled with thoughts of my own. Madoc has taken my mind captive- my each and every reflection arrives in the form of bits and pieces of a memory I am not familiar with. His presence beyond death is evident. Death cannot stop a man of his will. With every breath and every pulse of my heart his incessant voices grows louder, not quite yet distinct enough to make out his words.

Cardan’s estate is free of any welcome company. He doesn’t wish to be accompanied in his own home. If you could even call it that. The property almost seems abandoned, the structure unkempt with a mess of ivy draped around the exterior. I stay there for an innumerable amount of minutes, an unfathomable count of seconds. The time bleeds away in the palm of my outstretched hands. I do not cry- have not cried since the news of his death. I suppose he would want for it to be that way. Revealing weakness would only allow room for malfunction. I cannot spare another moment wreaking havoc against my thoughts or waging war against my own body. I am fragile as is, my mortal body only another example of my unsuitability for this position. I do not say any of this, though. I do not acknowledge my pain, nor give Cardan the satisfaction of hearing to my cries through the walls when I lay down to bed each night. It’s not that I fear he will mock me mercilessly at the expense of my pride; it is that I fear he will not.

“Jude,” his voice is laced with an irritable amount of amusement, “Have you returned from your errands?” Of course I do not inform him of my plans to visit my father’s funeral. I do not inform him of anything, except what is undoubtedly vital to the throne, because his position is but my only concern of him. This has become increasingly difficult, seeing as how we must reside under the same roof.

He positions himself against a pillar, his arms crossed over his chest. If he thinks I am in any mood for a verbal spar this morning, he is mistaken. He will get nothing but venom from these lips. He does not see me, and when he does I cannot place his expression from snide indifference or withheld concern for my well-being. Surely he knows already of Madoc’s death. If not from me, than any number of his mindless drones he keeps around to discard of his trash or laugh at his jokes.  
I pull myself to my feet- the ache in my limbs a familiar sensation of poison running through my veins and intoxicating my thoughts. I have consumed no poison this morning, however. The only influence of behavior I am suffering from is the side effect of grief. Crippling, nauseating, time-consuming mortal grief for which there is no cure. It takes every remainder of strength-consciousness-unscathed pride to make it past Cardan and into my chambers. I do not look at him when I pass. Surprisingly, he does not stop me. Even though a small part of me wishes that he would.

 

 

The door to my chambers makes an unpleasant crack as it slams against its hinges. I crumple up into myself, as though my body is a wadded sheet of scroll and I have been discarded. I twine my limbs into a makeshift cage of protection for my head, which rests in between my knees bent at odd angles. I am reduced to the size of an overlooked light fixture. My stomach releases an inhumane growl. I have forgotten to eat again. I have forgotten to eat for the past four days. 

I cannot continue to place blame on my forgetfulness. I go without food or drink simply because I know I am unable to keep any of it down. Perhaps a trip to the mortal world may just be what I need. I haven’t gotten a chance to visit Vivi or Oak since the fall. I fear that if I am to leave the Court, Carden will find a way around my instructions and by the time I come back he will have abdicated the throne, somehow. It’s like watching over a child with no intention or desire to please, but simply to destroy. I don’t think I could take much more after this. If things remain calm enough over the next few weeks, I should be able to return to normal. Death takes a toll on mortals, more so than any number of deaths among Faeries. It only serves as a reminder that no matter how much time passes that I do not return to the mortal lands, I will never be but a mortal girl, from a mortal world. 

 

 

I think I fell asleep on the floor. I think this because there is a tile imprint on my right cheek, and crusted drool on my left. It takes me only a moment to collect my composure, gain my footing, and throw myself onto the bed. I take the shoes at my feet and rub at the spasms of pain spreading wildly along my legs, this does nothing but cause my weary muscles to tense at the touch. I manage to pry at the lacing along the back of my dress and slip the top half of the gown off my shoulders until my torso is bare, save for the corset. Exhalation comes easier; my ribs beginning to shift back to their natural placement. 

I never grow tired of taking these garments off, the relief that floods my bones when the ache slowly dissipates from ligament to appendage. The soreness almost a living, breathing being that gnaws away at my remaining sanity. When Madoc and I would train, I would rise early in the morning and by the end of each session he told me that the state of my body after would reflect whether or not it had taken an adequate toll on my abilities. The more pain I was in the following morning, Madoc would inform me that I was improving. I used to cherish the knowledge that the pain meant something, meant that it hadn’t all been for nothing. Today’s toll had all been in vain, I think idly as I pull at the pins and baubles fastened in my hair. 

I am no good at removing the pins; I only tangle them into my locks further. I continue with my attempts, viciously tugging until my scalp is as sore and pained and raw as the rest of me. I hear a rapping at my door, the sounds bouncing against the walls and rattling around the inside of my skull. I assume that it must be the Ghost, or the Roach, anyone other than the inhabitant of the estate, really. So, I simply shout an acknowledgement and tangle another pin in the mass of my hair. 

“Come in.” My back is turned from the entryway when the impact of his sharp-toed shoes echo along the marble. 

“Are you hungry?” Cardan asks. I spin toward him, one hand caught in my hair. The other, also caught in my hair. He holds in his grip, a silver tray stuffed with bread, cheeses, thinly-sliced meats, and a goblet full of something that smells foul and tempting. 

“No.” I say, too quickly, too sharply to avert any questions relating to my behavior. He sets the tray on my nightstand table and sits at the foot of my bed. I think he is awaiting another response, a more suitable response to his gesture. His eyes meet mine, and then land on the pins as they fall to the ground. 

“You haven’t eaten.” Is all he says. I am caught by his words, by the genuine sincerity in the tone of his voice. It only goes to prove that what Cardan lacks in his ability to lie, he makes up for in his skills of mischief and trickery. I do not believe that he is truly concerned. I try and sound like his false pity and kind gestures do not fool me. 

“How are you to know whether or not I have eaten-”

“You haven’t.” is all that he cares to say, and then proceeds to shift closer. I falter in my task, my tongue unsure of which words to speak. If I were on my feet, surely I would have fallen by now. He moves to sit behind me, swats my fingers from my scalp, and begins to effortlessly pull the adornments from my hair. 

There is a moment of silence that stills in the air. In this silence, I can hear the steady huffs of his breath. I only hope that the silence does not allow for him to hear the erratic huffs of my own. 

“Where were you today?” the silence shatters and litters the floor with shards of panic and shame. My cheeks hot with his gaze wandering to my eyes, which narrow and close. 

“You know where I was,” I cannot put it any simpler than this. I may have pegged Cardan for a fool once, but he is far more intuitive than most. I will not make that mistake twice. Neither will he. 

“I would like to hear you say it.” I cannot tell if he is being cruel, or if he mistakes his curiosity for a kindness. The absence of human emotion is my only advantage. If he believes I am weak, there is no telling the power he could hold over me, even with his oath. 

“Can we talk of other things?” He says nothing. This only makes things worse, there is more pain in my silence than there would have been, had I revealed that I attended my deceased father’s funeral and stood during the service, curling my hands so tightly that I bled through the crevices of my fingers. There is no point in revealing what he already knows. There is another silence that spreads between us. His fingertips graze the skin at the nape of my neck and every hair on my body stands, my shoulders tremble at the brush of his skin against mine. He seems to note this, drags a fingertip along a path that leads from my neck, to the lobe of my ear. We do not acknowledge this, however. He removes the remainder of the pins and my hair spills down the line of my back, a few geraniums falling from the stray locks. I turn to him, a soft smile twists my features. 

“Thank you,” but he does not move. He stares back at me, his eyes deep and unreadable. The way he looked at me when I threatened to shoot him in the chest with a crossbow, the way he looked at me with a knife to his neck. 

I expect him to smirk and reply with a comment about how my hair looks like a nest of twigs and dirt. He does not. He does not respond at all how I expect him to. He gathers a hand full of my hair and reels me forward, so that the space between our lips is a single breath. I can hear when he releases his breath; I can feel when the slightest shift of his jaw results in the touch of our lips. Tresses of hair wound in his palms, our lips gnash and teeth graze until I draw away so forcefully I yank my hair from his grip. 

I cannot put myself in this position again. He is not my equal, and I am not his consort. When I steal from his arms, my lips taste tangy with wine. 

When I leave him, my skin tastes bitter with tears.


	2. Same Old Shades of Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Madoc is still dead. Jude is still struggling. Nothing has changed. Except, since the last encounter between Jude and Cardan everything had changed. When Cardan stumbles upon a hidden truth about Jude's tragic past, he can no longer deny that the connection between them runs deeper than deprived tastes and physical attraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, this is a weird chapter. I know, trust me when I tell you I know. But it's finals week and I haven't slept in two days so here ya' go.

Today was miserably cold. A heavy layer of fog had settled the horizon, therefore making it impossible for the cargo ships stocked at the docks to precede any further. It was through this sort of fog that not even travelers could make out their path, and so it seemed that Elfhame was brought to a halt until the skies should think to clear. Had it been any other day than this, I would find no fault with it. 

And though the day was miserably cold, it also happened to be a day I wasn’t particularly fond of. I hadn’t thought to wake at sunrise, as I did most days. I hadn’t thought to do anything, really. I count the breaths beneath my sheets and the stillness of my body, weighted down by heavy-lidded half consciousness. The sound of silence is the loudest; I raise my palms to shelter my ears. You can hear your heart this way, you know: every pulse and throb of the blood swimming through your veins. I contemplate screaming, burrowing further into the sheets. Screaming and screaming and screaming until something bursts. An aneurysm, perhaps. Maybe a vocal fold, if I’m lucky. 

I am crawling underneath my skin; I scrub at the unpleasant sensation with the edges of my fingernails until it is raw and enflamed. Every piece of skin, bone, sinew is sensitive to light and touch. I run a finger along the tracks of my tears and the cracks it leaves in its wake. It splits the remnants of me apart, allowing my body to divide in delicate halves. 

 

The daylight breaks through the slits in my blinds and carries a gilded ray pale shadow splayed across my cheeks. I withdraw from the dim light, eyes lifting from my burrow of warmth and solitude. The room is flooded with a quiet rush of wind and the painful anticipation of what the day might hold if I were to leave the sanction of my quarters. I do not trust myself outside these four walls. I am severely lacking the patience it requires to breathe in the company of others.  
When I rise from the sheets, I feel shamefully exposed without the weight of armor at my chest, or the familiar feeling of a blade in my hand. I am concealed only by a thin slip of black silk that cuts off at the curve of my hips, along with a coordinating pair of boxer shorts in an identical shade of obsidian. With the glare protruding through the blinds I don’t feel comfortable in this skin. I remember just how disconcerting it is to see myself under the influence of day. During the night I am tucked away in shadows and sly smiles, in the evening I don gowns of spun gold and embroidered tunics that say nothing to the extent of my body. 

The girl that looks back at me from the mirror is a tired, disheveled sight. The angle of my shoulders draw inward, my neck craned to catch a glimpse of the scars along my exposed swatches of skin. With a single swipe I slip the silk from the right side of my chest to reveal long-since forgotten wounds that linger where he would think to strike the hardest. I am a mortal highly comprised of scars; I wear them as one would an unfortunate birthmark. The skin has since been disfigured and flushed a shade of fine porcelain, while the surrounding area remains colored with long exposure of sun. I run my fingers along the violent blisters and crevices- the poor attempts at stitching the wounds back together. I could have gone to a healer and rid myself of them; I chose to take on the task myself, instead. I would use a needle and thread and stitch until the pain became too much and I would pass out in the floor of my closet with a puddle of my own blood slipping through the cracks beneath my door. 

Some days when I wake, I can almost feel the heel of his boot against the cage of my ribs. These wounds. These wounds are different from all the others. These wound that came at the hand of my father, these wound that are a constant reminder of my mortality. The only wounds I heard at the end of his boot: snapping of bone, tear of tissue, draw of blood. 

I can’t bear to linger on the memory too long. I used to fear that if I were to lose myself in thoughts such as those, I might not be able to stand before the man I once called ‘father’ and leave without his blood on my hands. Which would only be fitting, seeing as how today was the very same day he slaughtered both my parents and stole me from the only home I’d ever known. It has been eleven years since I left the mortal world. It has been eleven years since I forgot what it meant to be alive. Not just a living being, but taking in each breath and remembering your purpose is not it vain—that you are not the product of misfortune and that every morning you wake to meet the rising sun across the horizon, that life is not simply an alternative to death. 

When you live in a place such as this, dying is always a risk. Fear, always a given—

 

 

When I hear the slamming of my chamber door, my fingers are still splayed across the traces of shattered bones and broken blood vessels. It is far too late to conceal myself. There is nowhere to hide- the pale light dancing along the walls, the fog wearing thin as the sun peaks out from behind the clouds. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I drop the fabric back into place and scramble to draw back the blinds.

“It’s too bright in here, wouldn’t you say? The light hurts my eyes-” Cardan is frozen, his demeanor suddenly cast away with all remaining light as I shift the blinds closed. The room is draped in shadows, only a fraction of sun peaks through the windows. It is not dark enough to avoid finding his gaze at my chest, as if he could see through skin and bone and diagnose my damage. 

“Cardan, are you alright?” I say, like a moron. He and I both know exactly why his gaze flits from my rib to the twisting of my hands. I hope that he cannot see the blush at my cheeks. I pray that he cannot feel the thrum of my pulse. 

“Where did you get those?” his voice is so raw that I nearly flinch. Even with the room cast in darkness, his eyes are lit with unease. Like he’s just consumed a vile concoction and if you were to tip him over with the force of your breath, he would shatter upon impact. But standing here, the shadows looming over our bodies like demons before the hunt, I am the one who is liable to shatter. It would take nothing but the lull of his voice to make me fall. It would be a pleasant, willing fate. I am at a loss for ways to divert his attention; confessing to my endured childhood trauma is quite literally the last possibility to leave my lips. What could I say that would make things any better? Hey, we both have scars and daddy issues; let’s get matching bracelets? Unlikely. 

“Oh, those? They’re nothing, just old battle scars. I had a couple accidents when I was younger- didn’t exactly heal properly.” There was nothing accidental about any of my scars. Each and every char of flesh was a result of the consistent strain of being torn continuously before given time to heal. It’s funny how those kinds of things work. Unless given the time to heal, it only worsens until each memory is relived upon sight. You never know how poorly you repair yourself until you wake and feel that same pain with each inhalation. Only this time, you can’t fix it.

I used to dream of that day. The day it all fell apart; it was hard not to. I imagine Vivi and Taryn did the same. Though, after a while, the details were a blur. But nonetheless, the dreams returned with each night. After eleven years, my recollection is disoriented and faded with years of wear. I remember the sound of the blade as it pierced my mother’s heart. I remember the scent of iron and the taste of rotten pennies when I bit the insides of my lip to keep from crying. Most of all, I remember the way Madoc looked at my mother’s corpse, slumped across the floor: like a child’s doll that had been carelessly discarded, only to be found after having tripped over it and found in the pool of its blood. 

“Why do you lie?” his tone is that of an angry father’s, scolding a child for their blatant disobedience. I have never been so grateful for a mortal tongue; possessing the ability twist words and confessions in my mouth like the stem of a cherry. It must be quite frustrating, having to fear for the truth and search for the twinge of pain that clings to my words. I cannot look at him and claim this spoilage of skin was merely a work of circumstance. At least, not believably so. If my dishonestly were a gift, it was but a faulty attribute. It was no more a skill than the Faeries’ ability to speak only truth. 

“Really, it’s nothing. Please, Cardan, don’t worry about it.” The desperation in my voice is so evident that even the demons cackle and twine their tails, shifting the darkness around the chamber from one side to the other. His footfalls trail closer, my eyes adapting to the lack of light enough to know when he stands only an outstretched arm away from me. 

“I would have thought that you of all people would know better than to speak falsely to your king.” If not for the unexpected tenderness in which he spoke, on might think that he was rebuking me. Even worse, one might suppose he was making a mockery at my pathetic attempt of dishonesty. He plays no game with his words, however. He wears no mask of trickery or knavery. His words simply plead for truth. The one thing I am least likely to offer. 

“I ask that you would leave at once.” I advance toward my chamber door, the hair at my scalp coiled into an intricate braid swinging as I make my way. Stray locks fan my cheeks, the scarlet tides washing over my skin and enveloping my thoughts in a haze of hysteria and the number of words that I must speak in order to force his exit. At the moment, there are but three: I beg you. However, his footfalls match my own stride for stride, and when I turn my back to meet him he is blocking the entryway.  
He is so near to me, his eyes painfully drawn to the tremor of my lip. I do not give him the satisfaction of finding my eyes, lost wandering the collar of his immaculately tailor-fitted tunic.  
“I beg you--” I say to the hollow in his throat. My voice, unlike his own, is not soft. My voice is broken and raw under the influence of his unsteady exhalations of breath that bathe my skin in warmth. I am so certain that if he were to ask anything of me—this way, with his breath on my lips and his eyes at the inflammation of my cheeks, I would do it. I would drown in the raging currents swept up inside the crook of his arms and set my body alight with the fire raging in the iris of his burning eyes if he were to ask it of me. This is what scares me the most. 

 

 

“No,” the cold extent of his palm rests at my neck, “I beg you-” he lures my chin into his hands-  
He kisses me then. He kisses as he speaks: soft and wise, at times. Others, he is strong and stubborn, drawing me closer when my lips part to gasp for breath. I am drowning in his embrace, my body lit like the end of a match struck against the embers of his eyes. 

The brush of his palm against the side of my rib where his eyes had previously witnessed all the wounds I’d hidden from sight and touch and kept from the mouths of curious Fae sends me sprawling away from him. When our lips spilt apart, an unpleasant smack hangs heavy in the air.

“If you do not wish to leave, then I will.” My arm is caught in his grip when my feet begin to gravitate toward the door. With a hand drawn to cover my mouth, he takes in sight of me. He looks at me as though he has never laid eyes on such a harrowing vision—as though I have just ripped the beating heart from his chest and greedily consumed it with no more than flimsy, mortal hands and flesh-baring teeth. Surely, I am not the thief of hearts, nor have I burdened him with my grief. What misdeed have I committed against him that he must view me as such?

“Was it Varian? Did he hurt you?” If only it had been Varian, I might not feel so obligated to protect a man such as himself. May he rest in peace, I thought grimly. My mind draws to the image of his corpse draped across my bed sheets and the line of his mouth when I drove my dagger through his heart. 

“No.” another light tug at my wrist. 

“Was it Locke, then? I’ve always known that his obsession with you might delve deeper than simply a desire to have you, but I never thought that he would actually hurt you. I swear if I had known--” I can hear the grit of his teeth when he says this. 

“Cardan--” Ignore. 

“Did you tend to the wounds on your own? Why had Locke thought to--” my voice is so sharp that his hold on my wrist releases and the blood beneath my cheeks boil for quite another reason. 

“Stop it. Cardan! Just stop, Okay? It wasn’t Varian. It wasn’t Locke.” I finally dare to look at him. The twist of his features displays just how perplexed my words settle on his mind. 

“Then who?” and maybe it’s because I am so acutely aware that his presence is too much for me to handle, or because I am so poorly rested that my body could come toppling down upon him at any given notice, but I confess.

“Madoc.” When I say the dead man’s name, I am reminded that he can no longer hurt me. For the first time in weeks, his death comes as a relief. The faded wounds no more than a relic of his existence.

“Your father?” he seems even more confused than he’d been when my answers had been vague and limited. Now that I have given him all the pieces to assemble, he finds trouble with the reveal. I expect him to apologize for the dead man’s sin and accept the answer he is given. I expect for him to care no more for the topic. I am wrong. 

“You never said anything.” All at once, he is closer and breathing heavier, his shoulders burdened with an unspoken confession of his own. His voice is so guttural he nearly chokes on his tongue. His hand rests at the space where my chest meets my neck, his fingers curled at my throat. His touch is oblivious to my trembling, his hand somehow bringing my pulse below a resting heartbeat. I close my eyes when I say,

 

 

“You must think I am a coward.” I think I am a coward is what I do not dare to speak. 

“I don’t think that’s possible. Not you—never you. You are far too strong, far too fierce to be a coward. You did not speak because you did not wish to. If you were strong enough to endure such horror, I will never think, nor speak such things of you.” His fingers trace idle circles at the base of my neck. 

“You only say this, because you do not know.”

“Let me tell you something; Locke, is a coward. Taryn, is a Coward. People like your father, are cowards. And quite possibly, the worst of them all, I am a coward. I have been a coward from the moment I met you. I fear every word that passes between us, and every breath that we share. I feel for you, and it terrifies me. I see your scars,” he stops, takes a shallow breath, and his fingers press lightly at my collarbone, 

“—and wish for nothing more than to make every inch of your mind, your heart, and your skin made known to me. I am a fool to distance you from my fear, but I can offer you no more of me; this—this is what makes me a coward like all the rest. You, however, do not have the makings of a coward, Jude Duarte.” The sounds of his words fall silent. 

It is my turn. 

I do not speak of cowardice or of the delicate intimacy of this moment. I do not speak of his vulnerability, or the strangeness with which he conveys. I do not speak of anything. 

Because what comes next is not a time for speaking at all.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I realize this doesn't exactly go along with the plot. But after the ending of Cruel Prince, I've been wondering how their relationship might work. Especially if Jude were hurt and vulnerable because she had just lost someone and Cardan witnessed mortal grief.


End file.
